The New York Americans
by Skye Feyden
Summary: In the year 1903, Skittery, too old to be a newsie, is recruited by the baseball experiment later to be called the New York Yankees. But when a key piece of his past resurfaces, can he push it away in order to stay with his new team? [Slash warning]
1. First Inning: Letter

FIRST INNING: LETTER

The brown paper package lay discretely on the table in a very non-threatening manner, but somehow its sudden presence still made Michael Smith uneasy.

He studied it, trying to see through the brown wrapping. But all he saw was the brown paper, sealed across the top with a bit of cheap wax.

Cheap wax. He never got mail; who, then, had sent this? Michael had no parents, nor did he have close friends. He supposed that at one point in time, he had parents, namely at his conception, and he absolutely knew that he had once had close friends. But with age had come hardships, and with hardships, separation. And around that lonely time, Michael had given up on selling papers, because who wanted to buy wrinkled papers from a dirty face that was no longer innocent, young, or clean?

Who had sent him the package?

He sat across from it, hands on the table, studying it intensely, sure that its delivery at this apartment had been some kind of a mistake. But, yes, that was the correct address on the brown paper. Yes, he was Michael Smith. But there was no address listed for a return. In four years he had never received a single letter, and now came this elaborately wrapped package, complete with its cheap wax seal.

Michael reached toward it with tentative hands. It felt as if the package were repelling him and he cringed. Surely his juvenile crimes could no longer haunt him; he wasn't even sure his name was really Michael Smith. Perhaps he had made it up in pitiful longing for some sort of solid past.

The writing was messy, misspelled, painfully childish. Michael could barely read, but this was simple enough, and frightening. It opened, terrifying to him, with the greeting, _Dear Skittery,_ and then continued with a few old memories. Horrified, Michael continued to read.

_Who knows my name?_ he thought, frightened and awed. _And how did he find me?_

The answer came at the end. _Your loving friend,_ it closed, _Snitch._

Michael's hand moved to his heart. Clutching at his chest as if it pained him, he read the name again in disbelief. _Snitch,_ it absolutely said. _Snitch._ He gave way then to wariness. With an odd feeling, he understood that this may wreck the future he had built so carefully for himself.

Snitch.

Funny feelings rose in the deep parts of his heart.

Michael carefully tucked the letter into the drawer of his worn little desk. It was July, and hot in the city as it was hot in an oven. He slumped back in his lone chair, placed tediously across from his lumpy bed, and considered the next move. He had received the letter, and more than that, to prove its authenticity, there had been also the tarnished silver chain. Only Snitch could ever have traced that chain back to his old friend. Four years ago ... such a long time ago ...

Calloused fingers lightly feeling the weight of the stolen silver, Michael squinted again at the letter as if he somehow expected it to change. He wondered at the whole situation.

_I'm back in New York,_ the letter had said, _And I want to see you. Please Skittery, I know that you remember me, please answer this. I've read about you in the papers, and I want to see you. Please, Skittery, answer me just this once. Your loving friend, Snitch._

Defeated at last, Michael sat back. Of course he remembered Snitch, how could he forget Snitch? But for Michael to bring his past into his present would be dangerous, and this Michael understood with a highly trained discipline, though his feelings were suddenly becoming mixed and uncertain.

No.

No.

Michael repeated the strong word twice in his mind and shifted his weight to the right to look at his own dirty reflection in the cracked mirror. No. He had once put a stop to this, now he would put a stop to it for good. He would answer Snitch, and tell him no. No. Such a statement would be, indeed, the right thing to do.

But when his fingers lingered on the chain for an instant too long, he thought better of it and fastened it around his neck before grabbing his glove and bat and leaving the spartan apartment.

Even at training that night, he could not concentrate. He tried to, of course, but with dismal, discouraging results. And the worst happened when he wasn't paying attention and he got popped in the nose with a fly ball which bloodied it instantly.

"Jesus, Smith," someone swore at him. "Watch yourself or you're gonna get hurt!"

"Thanks," Michael said irritably, trying to stem the flow of thick, red blood from his nostrils. "I didn't know that."

"You havin' an off night or something?" asked the pitcher Jack Chesbro.

"I'm tired," Michael answered elusively, though it was half true.

"Well, get it together and get onto the field," called another playful voice, slamming Michael's mitt into Michael's gut, in a friendly manner.

Try as he might, Michael could not bring his mind fully into the game at training that night. Even as he wiped the sweat from his eyes, he remembered – unwillingly – the days when he had sold New York's papers in New York's heat. Snitch had been there, of course – no, he did not need to recall this. Such days were like the forbidden fruit of his mind's eye, beautiful to look at but dangerous to actually taste.

Still, he could not concentrate strictly on his game. Mind drifting in a consistent way, even the other players noticed that Michael's game was not true to his usual form. But they also knew that Michael was young, only twenty, and that he was still adjusting to the game. So they were patient, and when Michael went home that night, he parted from his teammates with gentle words of encouragement.

"Get some sleep, kiddo," Chesbro patted his young friend on the back. "Feel better tomorrow."

Conroy agreed. "Get your head back. Clear up, lad."

But Michael knew that sleep would not help, and that he may have lost his head for once and for all. He did not say this, however; he went home, and he put his head on the lumpy pillow, but it was a long time before he could will himself to fall into a fitful sleep.


	2. Second Inning: Before

Hey there, thanks for reading. I promise, it will be nicely worth your while.

Anyway, this entire story has been written for months, but I will update when I can (AKA when I have actual free time). I've only just started school again (college, actually, at New York University in the middle of crazy Manhattan) and I've been so busy it's impossible to comprehend. Sorry about typos as well ... I don't have time to properly and completely proofread even though I try. Please, please tell me about them!

**studentnumber**: I didn't steal this, honest! Don't sue -- when I say I have no money it's not a metaphor for being _almost_ broke, it means I have $5 of someone else's money to my name and I can't even afford to eat anymore! Saltines have become my steady diet! Seriously, though, thanks for the review, and I love oldschool baseball, especially oldschool Yankees crap. And now that New York City is home to me, it's easier than ever for a Pittsburgh girl to be a big Yankees fan!

**Thumbsucker Snitch**: I am flattered by your review. A good idea is something very new for me and I'm still working out all the technical flaws of such a miracle. At any rate, I hope you continue to like this story. I swear, it gets better!

And lastly, to **Arty** – New York is treating me wonderfully. I might not be home for Thanksgiving (I can't effing afford the train, the cheapest way of travel!) so I'll see you at Christmas. I love you!

SECOND INNING: BEFORE

The face had long since blurred his mind, but in his dreams that night, he saw his past, his friends, the long-forgotten time from before.

Michael was sweating, coldly, and rolling from side to side beneath his worn, scratchy covers. The wool made his legs itch, but he did not, could not wake.

What was it that made Michael's mind so fitful? He remembered certain people, certain places, certain events. He remembered the before, the time when he had been too young and too dependent to carve out any semblance of a life for himself. It was not a time of which he was fond, not a time of which he was especially proud. He could vividly recall very little of his previous life, and in the day he understood it to be a time riddled with confusion and extremes. Beyond the strong, close bonds with the friends he had managed to find all too late in life, he simply hated to think of that time at all.

In truth, what he hated about that time were only the realizations he had come to about himself. Secret as he kept those relationships, they were there, and they would be the ultimate bane of his existence. Just sixteen years old, he had been the epitome of innocence, the picture of youthful confusion and desire. Dark-haired, rosy-cheeked, dirty-faced, passers-by on the street could never refuse buying his so-called last pape.

"Skittery..."

Michael's face drew tighter, and he rolled fitfully onto his other side.

"Skittery..."

Michael's hands were cold and clammy, sweat beading up on his hot forehead.

"Skittery..."

Michael bolted awake, a gruff sound escaping brokenly from his throat. His bare chest heaved in the darkness.

"Snitch," he swore, then uncovered his strong legs and rose from the narrow, creaky bed.

He lit a candle and walked to the basin of water he left by his mirror. His reflection was ruffled, scrappy, disturbed. Michael splashed some water onto his face and let it drip down his skin.

As if something had changed, Michael opened his desk drawer and reached in, lifting his lone, simple book, and let his fingers grope the letter. It was still there, indeed. He lifted it and set it before him.

_I've read about you in the papers_, it said, _and I want to see you_.

_I want to see you._

"Our business was finished years ago," Michael whispered. "I don't want to see you."

But his fingers had gone and wrapped themselves in the silver chain around his neck.

Maybe, when Michael said such things, he was lying even to himself.

He was still sitting on the edge of his bed, face in his hands, thinking. In the earliest hours of the morning, Michael was thinking.

Strange emotions had resurfaced in his chest; he could not ignore them again, that much he knew. Once he had ignored, then given in completely. Then he had withdrawn, and now he was once again teetering on the edge. Michael knew that he had to find a happy medium.

But Michael did not know how to find a happy medium. He considered exactly how to answer the letter, for not answering it had never truly crossed his mind at all. Instead, he was not sure if he would say yes, or no. Though Michael could feel his heart begin to answer for him. Dear Snitch, he would say, I couldn't believe it was you after four years...

Four years. What an amazing thing, this singular, miraculous letter. A gift, a second chance ... would he now be brave enough to take it?

0000000

He knew the number already. "Jack," he said, after the New York Americans pitcher picked up the telephone. "Ches, I don't think I can come tah practice. I ain't feelin' so good, Ches."

"Smith? Where the hell are you?" But the voice wasn't angry, only concerned.

"The lobby, downstairs from my apartment," Michael answered. "I ain't feelin' so good, Ches."

"It ain't no problem, Smith. You go upstairs, and you get some sleep. We need yah for the next game." There was a pause as Jack Chesbro adjusted the phone against his ear. "Yah need anything, Smith?"

"Nah, Ches, I'll be better soon. But thanks, Jack, I appreciate it."

"Yeah, take care," Jack answered. "Bye, Smith."

Michael hung up the phone. Someone was already waiting patiently behind him, and he sidled out of the way to make room for the newcomer. He went back upstairs, into his hallway and took a relieved breath. Fumbling for the key in his pocket, Michael found that he was glad Jack Chesbro had not questioned him at all.

His apartment was small, so spartan that it could not even be considered unkempt, and his. After four years of relying on the kindness of others, Michael was now extraordinarily proud of his less-than-meager income and the place which he had managed to buy on his own. He barely owned more than three outfits of poor-quality clothing, but Michael was happy, and indeed, proud. As he opened the door, and went inside, he could not have imagined something better.

The letter was still waiting for him, though, and Michael found himself to be somewhere between ecstasy and despair. Or, perhaps, he had found both at once.


	3. Third Inning: Reply

As I type this, the Yankees are finally home for Game 7 of the ALCS ... I live with a Red Sox fan, too, and we cannot stand to be in the same room while the game is going on. New York City so loves its baseball team that it's incredible ... I can't even describe the pride in this city as the team continues to play so well. Cheer them on! The next stop: the World Series!

THIRD INNING: REPLY

_Dear Snitch_, he had written in his clumsy, hastily-learned script._ It's been a long four years._

Michael studied the almost-blank paper before him. With bleary eyes, he looked over the distance between the words he had already set down and the empty bottom of the page.

_It's been a long four years._

That did not even begin to describe it.

There was much that Michael wanted to say that he did not think he would ever say again. _I've thought about you a lot, Snitch_, or, _Sometimes I still dream about being with you_. But Michael was wary of eye and of heart, and he knew that it would be unwise to say exactly what he felt. Instead, with clumsy, reluctant hands, he penned:

_I guess that seeing you is the least I can do. I practice with the team everyday but Sunday. So how about noon, in Battery Park? Don't come looking for me with the team. You won't find me there. Sincerely, Michael Smith._

His heart fell even as he read it. He sounded cold, almost angry, not at all the way he wanted to be seen. But then again, Michael knew that anything else would be dangerous. He was no longer sixteen years old, and as a consequence, he was no longer blissfully oblivious of the impossible nature of an alternative lifestyle.

Michael sat on the edge of his bed. It was no more than a mattress raised from the floor by a bad set of rusty, creaking box springs, but at the moment, as he put his entire exhausted weight on it, the bed became a refuge, and he loved the fact that it was indeed entirely his. He put his face in his hands once again. "What have I done?"

He slept a little, after that, shirtless, trying to pass unscathed through the intense heat of the sunny July afternoon. It was only the second practice Michael had ever missed since training the first time with the New York Americans, and in his honesty, Michael felt fine with the break. The first practice he had missed had been yesterday.

But his nerves prevented him from sleeping well. By now, Michael was tired, but heavy as his eyes were, they would not close. Instead, he was awake, and thinking.

Awake, and thinking.

Thinking.

Time seemed to stop, the singular clock ticking, ticking, ticking, keeping Michael awake. He lapsed back into old thoughts, old times. Sweat dampened his skin, the sheets, his hair, his mattress. Tossing and turning, Michael's mind was full of apprehension.

Around noon, Michael walked the letter to the post office. He bought a stamp and licked the back before sticking it to the envelope. He had not even put a name above the street address, just an apartment number. He could not bring himself to hope that this reunion could honestly take place.

But the chain still had not left his neck.

He went home, and around two o'clock, Jack Chesbro came to visit. Michael lay in bed, weak, desperate, his gray boxer shorts slightly crooked so that he was uncomfortable when there was a knock at the door.

"It's Ches," came the call.

"Door's open," Michael replied.

Jack came in, tentatively. "Hey, Smith," he said, smiling. "How're ya feelin', buddy?"

"Not so good, Ches. Maybe it's the flu."

"Your building ain't the cleanest place," Jack said. "We'll get ya outta here, you'll catch every sickness that comes in the front door."

"Nah, Jack, it ain't that bad." He gave a cough, one that passed for illness even though it simply had come from smoking too many cigarettes and too many cigars. "S'the first time I been sick in a while."

"Yah gonna be alright soon, Smith? We all know that you don' skip outta practice, ever, so you's gotta be nice an' sick now."

"Yeah, Ches, nice an' sick."

Jack Chesbro laid a kind hand on his teammate's clammy forehead. "Feel better, Michael, alright?"

"I'll be back Monday, Ches." Michael answered with real warmth. "Keep a place open for me, okay?"

Jack Chesbro's face crinkled into a kind smile. "Alright, Smith. The boys say hello. They's anxious ta know how you're doin'."

"Tell them, Great."

"I'll tell them you're alive, an' make 'em wonder how much alive you are." He winked and rose from the edge of the bed. "Okay, Smith. We'll see ya Monday, but don' rush yer recovery."

"Don't worry, I'll be fine soon."

"Good boy, Smith. Bye."

"Bye, Ches."

Michael heard the door close. Then his apartment was quiet, and he rolled over onto his other side. The bed creaked beneath him.

He was all wound up now that Ches had visited. Michael had few friends ... none, actually. But Jack Chesbro had a real warmth about him. He tried to make the team feel like a team, a group of friends indeed. Michael appreciated Jack Chesbro's efforts, and knew that he could go to Jack with just about anything he needed. He could talk to Jack, ask Jack for help ... except for this one thing, this one thing ...

His fingers suddenly went to the chain. And on this hot July afternoon, suddenly Michael's curiosity got the best of him. He rose and stalked quietly, almost unwillingly, to the heavy green safe next to his worn, broken dresser. Michael opened it, and his big strong hands went to the back of the safe, in the darkness, and felt for the old dilapidated box. As if it were dangerous, he pulled it carefully forth, and set it on the desk, taking a seat before it.

Michael opened the box. Inside was a mismatched multitude from his past, newspaper clips, photographs.

It was almost too much for Michael to bear as he sorted through the papers and the pictures. Tenderly, he looked at them, and set them aside. The Strike, his days as a newsie, a group photo that had been published in the paper. But at the bottom was the thing for which he had really been looking. At the bottom was a singular, dog-earred photograph.

Michael's arm was around Snitch, and Snitch was smiling widely. There was no mistaking the feelings so obviously passing between the boys.

Michael put the photograph down. He looked away.


	4. Fourth Inning: Again

I know that I should update more frequently, and I really hope that you'll forgive when I don't … college is a big piece of crap … seriously.

And NYU wonders why all the kids here have mad urges to jump from the damn buildings (I don't wonder; I know).

So I'm typing this chapter as fast as I can and then it's back to Aristotle and St. Augustine … yeah.

Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me.

_**The New York Americans**_

**FOURTH INNING: AGAIN**

He was sitting on the bench, self-conscious, watching with intense, amplified interest the people passing through the streets. The smell of the river hung in the air.

The letter was folded in his pocket, the chain around his neck. He had not anticipated the terrible nerves in his stomach or the bruising pace of his own mind, but he had made a deal and could not break it. Besides, after four years, he was morbidly curious. What had become of Snitch?

A few young men and women asked Michael for his signature, and he gladly obliged. Snitch could not mistake him; Michael had chosen to wear his New York Americans uniform shirt and a pair of brown trousers. Not many people owned the shirt, and his face was still his own.

As he scanned the crowd, his eyes came to rest on a tall, nervous young man. Immediately, a sense of awareness and panic flooded him. This young man could not be the wrong young man; there was only one name to which he could answer.

Snitch certainly had gotten taller, and broader. His lean, boyish body had filled out into that of a man's strong figure, his chest showing wonderfully through the dipping, unbuttoned collar of his shirt. For a moment Michael's breath caught in his throat at the older, more rugged beauty of his childhood friend's mature face. Snitch's eyes were still green. Michael was still infatuated.

He almost didn't want to break the omnipotent silence, but in the quiet distance he found his voice and called, "Daniel Murphy!" Somehow the nickname of the past no longer seemed suitable for the boy who was now a man. And then Daniel turned, and the past four years seemed to fade away.

"Michael Smith," came the reply and any words would have seemed trivial and empty. Daniel's long strides were bringing him closer and closer to the boy from his past. Suddenly, stoic Michael felt panicked. He had not felt true, honest feelings in four years.

For a moment they stood, awkward, unsure of what to say. After a wordless four years, what syllable could possibly break the icy silence? Then, Daniel broke it, saying,

"Oh, God, look at you!"

Michael's posture straightened before his old friend's roving eyes. "And you," he returned. "You're much taller."

Daniel's face broke into a wide, relieved grin. "So here's the big baseball player," he said, looking at the words stitched across Michael's chest. "Michael, I wish we had never been separated."

In spite of himself and Daniel's forward manner, Michael began to relax. "It's no one's fault," he said, smiling slightly. "But how did you find me?"

Daniel's face suddenly went ashen. "I saw you in the papers, an' I went to City Hall. I kept all our old pictures," he said, and bit his lip, barely able to meet his old friend's eyes.

But Michael agreed. "I did, too," he replied softly, and suddenly, at Daniel's eyes, he could not contain himself. "Listen, my apartment's just uptown a bit. We could have lunch …?"

And at the frank eagerness in Daniel's eyes, he felt a little afraid, and a lot excited.

-------------------------

The door had barely been closed before roving hands covered hot bodies. For a moment, there was an awkward fumbling because Michael had forgotten what to say, and could no longer clearly remember what to do. Then he was afraid of disappointment, of forgetting how it all worked. But then Daniel's hot mouth was on his neck, and Michael forgot the tension as uncontrollable desire cursed through his veins.

They were tumbling around in his bed, Daniel above, Michael below, and all the longing of the lonely past four years came back in one brutal act of searing passion. Daniel's hands grabbed at Michael's hips, their bodies heaving together in one great swell as painful moaning filled the room. The bed creaked, but neither heard. Their meeting had been barely an hour ago, perhaps one-hundred words total. Old habits die hard, it was said.

Michael thought, They did not know how right they were.

Hands pinioned shoulders, fingers gripped rolling hips, eager mouths explored crevasses of bodies. Michael groaned, the thought of guilt coming and going as Daniel made him forget all else. For the best part of a half-hour, there was no need for conversation.

Michael really had forgotten all else.

The release came just minutes apart for both. Daniel rolled over and stood, pulling on his pants.

"Sorry," he said, but did not sound so regretful after all.

"For what?" Michael's voice was hoarse, shaking.

"We don't even know each other anymore," Daniel answered. He was facing the wall and Michael was suddenly stricken with a throat-tightening fear.

"It doesn't matter."

"Please don't hate me now, for taking advantage of you. You're obviously very lonely."

"Advantage?" Michael's brows furrowed. "Daniel, even if I tried, even _when_ I tried, I couldn't hate you."

Pausing for a moment, Daniel sat down on the edge of the bed. He turned slowly to Michael.

"Maybe things haven't changed too much," he said then, reaching over to stroke Michael's face. His fingers strayed up to Michael's hair, feeling the soft, shaggy strands, then went down to Michael's strong, smooth chest. Daniel seemed to study his old friend as if from an unhappy distance.

"Maybe not," Michael said. The sheets tangled around him were damp from the sweat of his clammy, pale body. He reached for Daniel's hands. "Come back to bed. There's no one to see us this time."

Daniel's face tightened with the smallest of smiles. "We could stay in bed all day, if we wanted to."

"All day," Michael repeated. Ashamed, he realised how desperate he was for this simple human connection. It was entirely a new side of his character.

Daniel's body tensed. "We'll have to talk at some point, I think," he said, resolve breaking.

Michael smiled. "But not yet, not yet."

And before Daniel knew it, Michael's hands had pried the waistband of his boxer shorts away from his body, and all was sweet ecstasy again.


	5. Fifth Inning: Wait

Why Pittsburgh, you'll soon ask? Well, I do live there for a few months of the year still, so I've pitted my original hometown boys against my new hometown boys. There you go. Hope you enjoy.

_**The New York Americans**_

**FIFTH INNING: WAIT**

They were lying together in bed, side by side, warm and well-contented. Michael had left his room to call Jack Chesbro, but for nothing else. It was as if Michael were trying to bridge the gap of four years' time and fit it all into a few days.

"I have to go to practice tonight, you know," he said, naked beneath the simple white sheet.

Daniel kissed his collarbone with an eager mouth. Then he pulled away, and sighed. "I know. I can't keep you from your life."

"Not from the team. They took a risk in signing me." His fingers were playing with the chain. "I have to try my best and repay them now." Then he hesitated. "I have a game on Friday." It was Tuesday.

"Here?"

"No."

"Where?"

"Pittsburgh."

Daniel understood. "When do you leave?"

"Tomorrow."

A silence descended upon them both. Then Daniel asked, "Do you want me to leave?"

Michael closed his eyes. "I don't know what I want." Quiet, he stood and began to dress in his training uniform.

"I'll go back to my room in the Battery."

"No … stay here. I'll only be gone for a few days." Then Michael paused. "You have a room downtown?"

Daniel laughed, but it was tinged with cynicism. "See how little we've spoken?"

"We'll have plenty of time to speak when I get back," Michael answered. "Stay, please."

Daniel considered. "There are still things I need to say to you," he said finally.

"And I'll listen to every one of them, when I get back home." Michael, fully clothed now, slipped back into bed one last time. He kissed Daniel. "Stay."

* * *

The team welcomed him back with gusto. They cried and cheered, but now, after days of faking illness so that he could stay in bed with Daniel, he really did feel queasy. Perhaps it was only the reluctant separation.

On Wednesday, at seven o'clock in the morning, the players stepped onto the train and went. As it pulled away from the station, Michael felt ready to heave. He had given Daniel the key to his apartment and ample funds to keep him satisfied. But what if Daniel had another man – or a woman, even – over at the apartment?

That would be just as well, Michael decided. Michael and Daniel certainly were not "together" – they only took pleasure in the bodies of each other, nothing else. But could it ever be different?

Michael shook the thought from his head. He tried to force himself to concentrate solely on the game, but it was not easy. Daniel's sweet face kept appearing in his secret mind's eye. He loved the older, wiser, much more mature look of it, though he had noticed that Daniel's smile had lost some of it old, bright, child-like innocence.

The crack of a wooden bat rang out in loud exclamation. Michael's attention snapped back and he watched, from the bench, as a New York American – was it Conroy? – popped a fly ball into left field. A loud cheer from the team went up, Michael's hoarse voice included.

"Good boy, Conroy!"

"Way to go, laddie!"

Michael clapped and whistled. "Good hit, 'Roy!" he called out. "Good hit!"

The bases were loaded now, the New York Americans lagging behind by two points. Chesbro was up, then Michael. Michael's palms began to sweat. There was only one out, but because the bases were loaded, the pressure was mounting. He looked over, and saw the quality of Chesbro's swings. He prayed that Jack would not strike out.

But two swings later, Michael was watching with forlorn horror as Chesbro took another swing and did just that – he struck out. Jack left the field with a disappointed face. The only words in Michael's mind: Oh, Christ.

"Come on, pal," Jack said, giving Michael a quick pat on the back. "Let's get one for the team."

Let's? Michael asked himself. But it's all me, now. He felt the bat in his hands, the quality of the wood. As he stepped up to the plate, he took a final practice swing and felt the quality of the follow-through. Michael never struck out. Michael always got at least one good hit a game, and because it was already the bottom of the eighth inning, he was running out of time to get his one good hit. This, then, had to be it.

He concentrated on the pitcher's hand, the ball. It gleamed white under the lights of the stands. A movement, just one perfect moment between batter and pitcher. Michael tensed. Then came the pitch. It looked good – Michael chose it instantly. He swung. He missed.

"It's okay, Smith," he heard Jack's voice. "Come on, you'll be fine!"

Michael reformed his stance. He raised his eyes to meet the eyes of the pitcher. All was steel, cold and gray. Then another small movement, then the pitch. Another good one. Michael picked it as a perfect ball, and he swung, hard.

Nothing.

"Come on, Michael. Take your time, find your pitch!" Chesbro called.

Michael stood stock still. The lights were glaring, the pressure was crushing. It was the bottom of the ninth inning, and even though the game was exhibition, Michael's obligation was still pressing in on him; the New York Americans were down by two points. The thought ran through Michael's head. The sweat beaded up beneath his helmet, it stained the glove on his right hand. He twisted the bat in his hands. It was now, or it was never.

Under the lights of the stadium, he swung.

He felt nothing, no connection with the pitch at all. For a moment, he could not believe it, and then his head went down in shame. A roar arose from the opposition's fans.

"It's okay, Smith," went an unconvincing, consoling voice. A pat on the back followed. But Michael only felt worse.

Even on the train home that night, as he lay above Jack Chesbro's bunk on his own, he was only thinking, and could not get to sleep.


End file.
